On a Wing and a Prayer
by ALC Punk
Summary: Sam Anders discovers there's something a little more involved to being a member of the Final Five. How it fits into God's Plan is anyone's guess. Kara/Sam.


disclaimer: not mine. ok. maybe they sort of are. I certainly treat them better than Ron does. Sorta.  
rating: PG13, sexual innuendoes, language, some violence, married people groping each other, insta-wings.  
genre: wingfic, post-Revelations, angst  
spoilers: Revelations.  
pairing: Kara Thrace/Sam Anders, tiny blink and you miss it Athena/Helo  
length: 5000+  
notes: I blame Hecatesknickers for starting me on this path of, um, insanity. And Palmetto for encouragement and answers to Very Difficult questions. And also for not mocking me. Much. Except for in regards to the title. Which I couldn't help, because, seriously, once I'd thought of it, how could I not use it?

**On a Wing and a Prayer**  
_by ALC Punk!_

His shoulders had been itching on and off for months. Sam had always figured it was just something to do with the soap on _Galactica_. Even when he'd been on the _Demetrius_, though, he'd still itched. Right between his shoulder blades. 'Course, on long recons, it wasn't something he could think about or it would drive him insane.

If Sam were honest with himself, he'd admit that the itch had started after the fleet had visited a certain nebula, and he'd participated in a very surreal meeting in the gym.

But in this one instance, he wasn't going to be honest with himself.

It helped that he had the desolation of Earth to distract him. And Kara Thrace to shadow as she walked, almost stumbling, as though she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. Sam got that feeling. He was pretty sure he couldn't believe it, either.

The temple everyone was slowly congregating around had fallen down on one side, bent and broken metal reaching for the sky in some ridiculous mimicry of a human in need. Sam reached out to brush his hand over one of the twisted uprights and his fingertips tingled. It felt like an electric shock traveling up his arm. Quickly, he yanked his hand back, scrubbing his fingers 'clean' on his jacket.

A buzzing in his head echoed the shock, sounding like the music and the call from the viper and yet not. Sam growled under his breath and ran his hand through his hair, ignoring the persistent itch from his shoulders.

"Anders, you ok, man?"

It was Helo, and Sam shrugged, resolutely ignoring the itch as he'd ignored it on eight-hour recon missions. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. What's up?"

"We're going to set up tents for the night, get some fires going." Karl Agathon looked as unenthusiastic about this as Sam felt. "The Admiral thinks we should do some scouting in the morning, send back to _Galactica_ and the fleet for more people to help."

"It's going to get cold at night."

"Yeah. Everyone's going to be sharing."

Sam winced, but didn't tell him that might not be such a good plan.

* * *

The tents had all seen better days, but Sam and half a dozen of the other people on the surface had some tricks to keep the wind and cold out. They were divided up and worked on the tents as the light began to fall. The physical labor gave him something to concentrate on so he wouldn't have to think. Most of the canvas was what had been left in the ship's stores after the flight from New Caprica, though a few had made it back, refugees knowing the value of such supplies after a year of scrounging out a living on a barren world.

With a well-timed order, Adama, the President and D'Anna headed back up to their ships, leaving Major Adama in charge. He delegated Helo to assign bunk space.

Sam was pretty sure that was how he ended up with a tent big enough for four people and Kara Thrace. The tent was not going to be large enough. Hell, he was pretty damned sure that the entire planet wasn't going to be large enough a space between him and Kara.

"This is just great." It was the first thing she'd said to him since he'd been arrested.

"Yeah?" Not feeling all that inclined to be guilty or apologetic (he was cold, and his back was itching worse), Sam tied the flap tight and made sure it wouldn't let in any stray wind too easily. It was a losing fight, of course. The wind would get in any which way, and the only thing that would keep people warm would be snuggling close.

Sam was resigned to a long, cold night.

"You're lucky I don't have a gun."

"Dead bodies don't hold warmth too well, baby," he mocked. "You'd freeze your pretty little ass off before morning."

"Maybe I'd find someone else to keep warm with." It wasn't an idle threat.

There were at least two possibilities for her, and Sam didn't like either. He also knew he had no say in the matter whatsoever. "You do that, then." He unrolled both bedrolls and started combining the pieces. With both ground cloths, he might be warm enough.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to stay warm."

"You'll freeze on your own." She said it almost quietly, as though there were something wrong with the words she was saying.

"That'd solve your problems, then."

"Sam."

He looked at her, across the small space of the tent, and was shaken at how easily he could still read her, so he shook his head, "I don't have time for this, Kara. If you want out, go. I need to fasten the ties behind you."

There was a moment where things were at a crossroads. A knife balanced to fall either way. Kara huffed out a breath and crouched to start working on her boots, "You're warmer than anyone else out there, except Helo and he's still frakking a toaster."

It was supposed to hurt, so Sam let it roll off of him. "Yeah? Guess one toaster is better than a toaster and her husband, huh?"

"Oh, frak you."

He laughed, unable to help himself. And he was a little surprised that the sound was actually amused, "That an offer, Kara? Because I think it's a little cold to be baring that much skin. Unless you've got a fetish I don't know about."

Kara made a sound that might have been laughter and pulled off her boots before crawling towards him. "I'd forgotten what an ass you are."

"It's my charming personality," he quipped back.

"Ain't that a programmed trait, Sammy?"

The barb hit home and he stiffened, then looked at her, "You can still leave if you want, Kara. Nothing's stopping you."

"It's too frakking cold," she snapped, crawling into the layered nest of bedroll. "Get in here and stop pretending you're not shivering."

Sam looked down at her a moment, then shed his boots and did as she'd ordered, stretching out at her back, giving her space that disappeared when she pushed into him, tugging at his arm and the blankets. "Kara--"

"Maybe I'll shoot you in the morning," she muttered.

Reaching out an arm, Sam snagged the small lantern and turned it off before settling back down, arm looped over her waist. He tried to tell himself that it wouldn't last: come morning, she'd be up and gone, certain he was something she didn't trust. A thing. An it. But she still smelled like Kara, and he could still feel her warm in his arms.

And his shoulders still itched.

* * *

He woke disoriented, warm and sweating enough that he wormed his way free of Kara and the blankets to shed his sweatshirt. Gods. It wasn't enough, and he pulled his shirts over his head, growling a little when his shoulder blades itched even more than they had been. Twisting, he scratched at them, thumb nail digging in while he wondered if Kara would kill him for waking her so she could attack the spots for him.

It was like he'd picked up some rash or something. Worse than any bug bite he'd ever encountered.

Grumbling, still half awake, he knelt again, trying to shrug his shoulders and reach both arms around at the same time. It didn't really work and he stopped, bending forward and panting a little.

Sam was still so frakking hot he could feel the sweat sliding down his spine, making his skin itch harder.

"What the frak?" Kara's mumbled growl came from the nest of blankets. "Sam? What the frak is going on."

"Back itches," he muttered, reaching back again and freezing. There was a lump, something pressing up from inside his back--for an instant, he thought it was just the bone, the way he was holding himself so as to reach around. But it wasn't. He could feel a pressure coming from inside, and the lump pulsed. "Kara."

"I'm not scratching your itch, Sammy."

"Kara, I--" his voice cut off in a strangled sound as his back bent, whatever it was surging and shifting. He could feel the skin split, the muscles bulging and straining. Curiously, it didn't hurt. Even as he was gasping, making a sound he hoped never to repeat again, it didn't actually hurt.

"Holy frak--" Kara's voice was a distant sound as he dropped forward, clenched fists pushing down against the rough canvas of the outer blankets.

It didn't take long for the wings--he didn't want to think about how he knew what they were, not for a motherfrakking instant--to finish their task, to spread and unfurl, damp with sweat and oil as they struggled outwards. He could feel when they reached full capacity, white feathers brushing one side of the tent. "Gods," he choked, _feeling_ the way the newly-born wings shivered as the cold bit deep.

"Sam. Sam, what the motherfrakking--" Kara broke off, then started again, almost babbling, "--the hell, Sam. What the frak?"

He coughed, wincing as the muscles in his back and sides spasmed with the movement, new connections and nerves telling him that his wings were almost dry and her could furl them into a more compact size shortly. "Kara. I don't. I don't know." He raised his head and stared at her in the light spilling from the lantern she must have switched on while he was discovering new ways being a Cylon sucked ass. "I don't know what the frak--"

"You're a mother-frakking angel, Sam!" her voice cracked and she continued to hold her side-arm out, pointing unerringly at his head.

"I don't know what the--"

"You said that," she snapped.

"Stop pointing guns at me, Kara."

"It's only one gun, Sam. You scared?"

He laughed, the sound breaking in the middle. "Scared as frak. Gods, Kara. _Wings_."

"Yeah." Shaking her head, she lowered her gun and switched the safety back on. With a huff, she growled, "A little warning before your next transformation might be nice, jackass."

Gods. His shoulders weren't itching anymore. "I didn't know."

"Shit. I'm married to a freak."

"Frak you," he shot back, suddenly exhausted. His wings were mostly dry and he gave them a shake, the move not entirely coordinated, before slowly pulling them back in, tucking them against his back. "Frak. Frak. How the hell am I going to sleep?"

"Not with me--"

"We'll freeze."

Her eyes were a little wild as she looked at him, "You think I give a shit?"

"Kara. It's still me. _I'm_ still me."

"Oh, right. You're just a Cylon who--"

"I've always _been_ a Cylon, Kara. This doesn't change anything." He snapped, his tone angry. He hadn't wanted to be angry at her, and he knew some of it was self-directed. He'd known who he was, before the nebula, before Kara Thrace. He'd known he was Sam Anders, Pyramid player turned resistance fighter. Now he was a thousand different things and none of them made sense. Husband, lover, Cylon--

"It's too frakking cold to argue," Kara decided, climbing back into the nest of covers. "And I'm going to freeze to death."

"You can shoot me tomorrow."

"Yeah. Yeah, I can."

Sam crawled back in, twisting and wincing as he laid down on a wing the wrong way. It took both of them working to get situated again, and Sam was more on his front than his side, Kara tucked half underneath him when they were done.

It was Kara who turned the light out, setting her pistol next to the lantern.

* * *

Sam dreamed of flying, of spinning in a viper and never getting out of the tailspin before a raider shot him down. He came awake with a cry, shifting and jerking, his wings opening a little and getting tangled in the blankets.

"Hey--hey!" Kara grabbed at his shoulders, trying to hold him still, "Sam. SAM. Calm down."

For a moment, it was as though the last year hadn't been there. He stared down at her, smelling New Caprica (mildewed tents, mud and Kara Thrace all warm and sleepy). Then reality crashed down against him and he closed his eyes. "I'm good. I'm good." He pulled away, controlled movements that left him untangled and kneeling. His wings unfurled and wriggled a little while he stretched, his arms towards the sky that was just beginning to lighten the canvas walls with the dawn.

"Gods. It wasn't a dream." Kara sounded annoyed.

"No." He pulled the wings back in, reaching out a hand to stroke the feathers of one wingtip before letting it flip around and tuck in against his shoulders. "Not a dream." He shivered, and not from the cold.

"Gods." Kara jerked to her feet and grabbed her boots. "I can't frakking deal with this right now, Samuel."

"Kara, wait."

"I'm not going to shoot you--"

"No, it's--" Sam bent and scooped up his shirts, eying them and then sighing, "I need to borrow your knife."

Kara's head whirled and she stared at him, eyes with with horror, "You're not thinking of chopping them off--"

"What? No! But I can't go out there without a shirt on. And I can't exactly wear one over--" he gestured at the fold of wing poking up over his shoulder.

"This is a frakking dream," Kara muttered as she pulled her boots on before stomping over to him. "Put your shirt on."

Sam gave her a suspicious look, "Why?"

"So I can stab you in the heart." Kara rolled her eyes, "Moron, I need to cut holes in the right spots."

"All right." He stayed on his knees and slowly pulled the shirts on, watching her until he couldn't see her. When he was done, he stayed, tense and looking up at her as she came around to stand behind him. He didn't even notice how the shirt was stretched, pulled tight against his chest with the extra padding from his wings.

"Would you relax?" Kara snorted and reached out to tug the shirt straight, fingers pressing down to find the wings.

He wriggled a little, startled at the feeling of compression as well as something else he couldn't immediately identify.

"Here. And here." Kara muttered, hands and fingers moving over the shirt. When Sam twisted around to look at her, she had her lip caught between her teeth and a grease pencil in one hand. "Ok. You can take it off now."

With a movement he was beginning to think he could perfect, Sam pulled the shirt up and off, only getting his wings caught a little.

"Damn--" Kara's fingers freed him and he lowered the shirt, still staring up at her as she looked down at him. Her fingers stroked lightly along the edge of one wing, "Soft."

"I--" His breath caught and he swallowed as her fingers continued their exploration.

Her hand brushed down between his shoulders, over the join of flesh and new limb. "There's scars here," her touch lightened, tracing lines of skin, small ridges that were left over from the eruption.

"Yeah, I--"

"Can I see 'em again?"

Sam silently spread his wings, feeling the ease which he did, as though it were something he'd been doing all his life.

"They're beautiful," she murmured, palms pressing warm against the join and stroking outwards, following the curve of muscle and bone.

It occurred to Sam, as the sensation made him shiver with need, that maybe this wing thing wasn't such a bad thing after all. "Ah, Kara," he said, voice husky, "Could you stop that?"

"Hrm?" She moved, dropping down to kneel behind him, mouth brushing his shoulder, then spine, a soft line of kisses ending in the middle of his back.

The sensation shot through him, from the top of his head down to his toes, and he gasped, wanting to pull away, or turn and drag her down to the blankets, mouth hot on hers. "They're a little sensitive," he whispered.

Kara chuckled, her hands sliding along his waist. One dropped between his legs and cupped him, squeezing lightly, "I can tell, Sammy."

"Gods." He arched, hands fisting as he tried to steady himself against the pull of her, "Kara--"

"You always were such an easy lay, Sam." She said, her tone bitter as she moved, pulling free of him and standing.

Still reeling a little, Sam pulled his wings back in, then grabbed for his shirt. "I still need your knife, Kara."

"Here."

It landed in the bedclothes with a thunk. Sam scooped it up and spread his shirt on the ground, making quick slices where Kara had drawn lines. He tugged at the material, splitting it only a little more before it stopped. "All right. Ah, Kara, I might need your help."

"Yeah. Sure."

He pulled the shirt on, pulling it down and twisting, trying for only a moment before Kara's hands were there, slipping in and carefully tugging his wings out and through the slits. It took a little to get the entire mass free.

"You done primping, Sammy?"

"I'll just put my boots on. Maybe you should go warn the others," he suggested, suddenly nervous. With Kara, he hadn't even been afraid she'd break his new-found wings (even on his knees and vulnerable, the thought hadn't occurred to him). The others might not be so pleasant about it.

"Nah. I wanna see the looks on their faces."

* * *

They put him under armed guard (strictly as a precaution, the Major said) while Doc Cottle came down and ran tests on him. The older man checked the joins in muscle, skin and bone and announced he had no frakking idea how it'd happened. He smoked the entire examination, blowing into Sam's face twice before he moved off to let Ishay take blood samples and skin samples. Sam wasn't sure if he let them poke and prod him because he wanted to know, or because Kara had stayed with him, leaning against the side of the raptor, eyes on him the entire time.

Others came by, curious and alarmed, watching as he stretched his wings or twitched them, this way and that, as Cottle or Ishay directed. All of them stayed far out of reach, some eyed Kara with suspicion, as though she'd done something to change Sam from a Cylon into what he was now.

Sam would have liked to assure them she'd had nothing to do with it, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this hadn't happened until they'd reached Earth, until she'd known what he was... in some weird way, maybe she had caused it.

* * *

"I had to see the frakking miracle with my own eyes," Tigh growled.

Sam looked up from where he was carefully sitting outside the raptor, still watched by two marines. "Colonel."

"Don't 'colonel' me, you frakking jackass. What'd you do? Get Baltar to whip you up some bullshit skin grafts?"

"Oh, frak you," Sam snapped. He jerked his chin at the marines, "Why don't you get lost, Colonel? I'm sure you've got better things to do with your time."

"Maybe I do," the one-eyed man smiled unpleasantly at Sam and stalked off.

Sam rubbed a hand over his face, wondering if he was allowed to throw a tantrum like a five year-old now. His wing itched, so he twitched it around, scratching at the tip.

One of the guards was watching him, eyes wide.

"What?" Sam demanded, his voice a frustrated growl.

"Uh. Nothing, sir." The younger man stiffened, though he still couldn't tear his eyes off of Sam's wings.

"It's not nothing, Corporal. Spit it out."

Venner shifted on his feet, then coughed, "I was wondering. Can you fly, sir?"

* * *

It was a question Sam asked himself for the next two days. The tent city grew, augmented by a few pre-fab buildings from the baseship. Neither side wanted to give up on Earth--not yet, at least. And neither was willing to admit they'd made a mistake in looking for a dead planet.

Sam joined one of the scouting crews, walking or flying as they mapped the terrain, compiling locations of water, possible food sources, and more than a few plateaus that would make better places to house a settlement than where there were now. He tried to ignore the stares, but even with the modified coat he'd inherited, it was still impossible to hide the wings completely.

Adding to his frustration, Kara had taken to avoiding him again, as though the intimacy of the tent that night had been too much for her. He knew how she worked, though. Being close had always sent her running before. He just wished this time it didn't feel so final.

So when one of the pilots dared him to try, he couldn't resist.

Maybe he was just wanting to prove he was still himself, though he wasn't sure how flying would prove that. He still climbed on top of a raptor and closed his eyes for a moment before running and leaping up, wings snapping out wide, catching the wind. He nearly hit before he figured out how to hold them, sculling just a foot from the dirt before he swooped upwards, eyes wide and a little afraid.

Exhilaration hit him during his second dive, and he whooped, shoving himself up higher and then spiraling back down, flipping and rolling to break his momentum before pulling back for the sky.

He could feel the strain in his new muscles as he rolled over in the air, and spotted his wife, staring up at him in the midst of the crowd. Feeling rather smug, he banked and then dropped towards her, back-winging at the last instant to land neatly in front of her. "Hey, baby. Wanna go for a ride?"

Later, he'd realize that he couldn't exactly blame her for punching him. But at the time, the uppercut snapped his head around, splitting his lip on his teeth and it hurt.

"Asshole," she growled before stalking away and leaving him standing there, mouth throbbing.

"Damn, Anders, you do put on a show." Someone said, clapping him on the shoulder. Others followed suit, some merely touching him, some almost reverently, brushing their fingers against his wings until they'd all filed past and away, talking amongst themselves and casting him strange glasses. Full of fear and something else Sam didn't think he wanted to name.

He turned away, ignoring them and taking his wounded dignity off to have a drink.

* * *

Sam was on his way to a really good drunken stupor when Baltar showed up. The sight of the would-be man of God made Sam laugh before he'd even opened his mouth.

"That's good, you know. That you can laugh," Baltar said to him, his voice quiet.

"Yeah?" Sam _giggled_ into his next long pull of not-quite-paint-thinner. "Your god tell you that?"

"Yes, in a way." Seating himself, Baltar studied him for a long moment, before he remarked, "You're a very lonely man, Mr. Anders. Samuel. I've seen it, in the way people distance themselves from you, in the way even your own wife--"

"No." Sam said, his voice hard, "You don't get to talk about my wife."

"Perhaps. She's a lovely woman, you know. A woman of great warmth when she feels the need. It's a warmth you miss, isn't it."

"Frak." Maybe he shouldn't have been drinking, "What do you want, doctor?"

"It's not what I want. It's not about that at all. It's about what's right for you, in the eyes of God and man." Baltar leaned closer, hand reaching out, but not close enough to touch Sam. There was a reverence in his look and voice as he continued, "You've been chosen, Samuel. Chosen to be an emissary of God."

"Your god must have one frakked-up sense of humor, then. Because I am no emissary." With a shove, Sam got to his feet, swaying a little. Had he finished one bottle or two? He couldn't remember anymore.

Baltar followed him, moving around the table and steadying him with a hand on his arm. "That's correct, you know. But God loves you, Samuel. And in time, you'll realize that the greatest gift of all is that love. It's a love that--"

"If your God was all about love," Sam said, glaring down at the man he'd just knocked on his ass, "Then why the genocide of the colonies? Why the destruction of mankind? That's not love, Mr. Baltar. That's destruction and evil."

"Your words are meaningless, Sam. In this context--"

"Frak you." Not bothering to give the man another opportunity to spout religious bullshit at him, Sam turned and headed for his tent. Halfway there, he tripped over someone else's stake-lines and barely caught himself with his hands.

He laughed, fingers clenching in the dirt. Gods. It was all frakked-up and wrong. Stupid.

"C'mon." Hands pulled at him, and Kara slid under his shoulder. "C'mon, Sam. Time to go to bed."

"Hey, man," Helo was on his other side, tugging upwards until they got him back to his feet. "You got him, Kara?"

"Yeah, yeah--"

Sam laughed, harsh and ugly, "Thought you didn't want me."

"Shut up," She shoved at him, started him walking again as Helo stepped away, back to the doorway of the tent they must have come out of. If Sam had listened harder, he would have heard Athena sleepily complaining about idiots who were too tall to watch their feet.

"Why? Talking doesn't do anything, not talking doesn't do anything," Sam rambled, trying to ignore the way the world was shifting and spinning.

He wasn't really sure he could feel his legs anymore. Definitely two bottles.

"Gods, you are such a frakkin' asshole." She stopped, shoving him up against a wall that hadn't been there before. "Try not to fall over while I get the door, ok?"

"Kara--" he reached out, barely catching her before she walked away, "Kara, why?"

"Why what, Sam?"

He shivered, sober for just a moment, "Why haven't you put a bullet between my eyes?"

Standing there in the desolate starlight, she stared up at him, her eyes dark and hidden, her mouth set in an odd line. "Maybe I don't want to."

Two bottles of cheap alcohol bubbled through Sam's veins. He swallowed and nodded, "All right." Not yet, she wouldn't shoot him. Not yet. He had a reprieve, then. A chance to convince her that she didn't want him dead. That there was still something salvageable.

Kara pulled at his arm, "C'mon, Sammy. One step up and a room and then you can fall over, ok?"

"Love you," he mumbled, his thoughts jumbled as he stumbled up the ten steps and across half a dozen rooms before Kara was shoving him down. He turned onto his side, the movement as natural as laying on his back used to be. Tugging at his feet made him giggle softly, Kara cursing him for his big frakking feet.

"Shove over, jackass," she growled.

Sam half-opened his eyes and moved an inch. "That enough?"

"No."

He moved a little more. "How 'bout now?" It was a game they used to play, once upon a time on New Caprica. Sam wasn't sure if he was remembering it right or if he was just being an asshole. He kinda thought maybe it was the latter.

Kara made an annoyed noise and shoved at him before clambering under the covers and curling up against his chest. "It's frakking cold. Make yourself useful."

Grinning happily, Sam shifted a little further back, looped an arm over her waist, and proceeded to pass out.

* * *

The morning dawned way too early, along with far too many loud and obnoxious pilots. Sam whimpered a little and pulled Kara's pillow over his head. That didn't really help, but it was the best he could do until Kara shouted them all out of the damned building and out to their respective tasks. Eventually, she came back to the bedside and prodded his hip.

"Ow. Shoot me."

"Poor Sammy." She mocked, "Never could hold your liquor, or keep up with me."

He pulled the pillow up enough to glare at her through blood-shot eyes. His skin itched in a way that told him he needed a shower (lamentably cold, until someone worked out a way to get the boilers working down here), and his wings felt cramped like he needed a stretch, "Special circumstances. You can out-drink Tigh."

"'Cause he's a Cylon. Hey, maybe all of you suck at drinking," she suggested cheerfully.

"Frak you," he growled, rolling onto his belly and slowly pushing up onto his knees. He winced at the bright light coming in and slowly stretched, feeling his body protest the movement. "Gods. What the frak did I drink last night?"

"Got a better question for you, Sammy." Kara reached over and took his hand, showing him the skinned knuckles, "Who the frak did you punch?"

"A tent?" he hazarded.

She snickered and bounced onto the bed in front of him, looking at him for a long moment, her smile dying.

"Kara?"

"Yeah?"

Sam licked his lips and reached out to brush her hair back from her face, feeling reckless when she didn't pull away or flinch, he said, "Are we still married?"

For a long, silent moment, she simply looked at him. Then she shifted, kneeling on the bed and reaching out with her left hand for his right arm. Her thumb traced the ink, "You bitched for an entire month after we got these. I thought you were such a frakking _wimp_."

"It hurt," he defended, the echo of a long ago conversation.

"Not like--" she looked away, then met his eyes, "Promise me you won't pull stupid flying stunts without a spotter."

It wasn't an answer to his question--or maybe it was. Sam let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and gave her a lopsided grin, a little surprised that his headache was going away, "Only if you take a spotter in your viper."

Kara snorted, then reached up and tugged at his shoulders, pulling him off-balance. They both crashed down onto the bed, Kara shifting so she didn't get knocked to the floor. "I know something you don't know."

In the midst of trying to shift his own body so he could kiss her, Sam paused, "Yeah?"

She pulled his mouth to hers for a brief kiss, then whispered, "The CAG cleared the bunkhouse of pilots for the day."

That sounded like great news. Sam shifted again and then winced, realizing that his headache wasn't actually gone. Neither was the sudden queasy feeling in his gut, "Uh, Kara?"

"Go puke, try not to get lost. I'm going to get comfortable." She shifted into a good position for sleeping and let out a sigh, "The CAG hasn't had a decent night's sleep in months."

Sam scrambled over her, nearly falling before he caught himself on the bed frame, causing it to squeak in alarm. "Be right back."

He wasn't, but it didn't matter. Kara had fallen asleep moments after he dashed from the room.

-f-


End file.
